Whatever Will Be, Will Be
by RedRoses130
Summary: Hermione Greenway is found in the bushes, just a couple of days old, on the 21st of September, 1959. James/Hermione. Rewrite.
1. Chapter 1: Baby in the bushes

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**Disclaimer: I own nothing, never have and never will. **

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**Chapter One - Cokeworth, 21 September 1959 **

Much effort was going into rebranding the city of Cokeworth, with a significant portion of the city finances being dedicated to positive advertisement. The papers ran spiffy profiles, embellishing details of a suburban paradise with a picturesque city centre on the banks of a pristine river. The radios spoke enticingly of a safe landscape unmarred by the devastating effects of the war, but with a long patriotic history contributing to the country's economy. Real estate agents were paid handsomely to talk positively of the new terraced brick houses that formed street after street, to emphasise the importance of the mansions up on the hill, and to gloss over the rickety old houses of Spinner's End down the stream.

Much of this advertisement was done in effort to dispel the notion of class… No longer was Cokeworth a handful of wealthy people looking down on the impoverished masses… Now it was a handful of wealthy people whose view of those impoverished masses was obstructed by a charming hamlet of slightly less wealthy and slightly less poor families. Perhaps the one real way in which the inhabitants of Spinner's End were able to benefit from all this hassle was affordable entertainment. A cinema, three cafes, a shopping street, and small park for the children were built to accompany the terraced brick houses - Cokeworth was now an exemplary specimen of the new British middle-class. There was even a hotel, and though the Railview seemed properly posh, it was doubtful that Cokeworth would ever be a great tourist attraction.

One of the six mansions on the hill was owned by the newly married Florence and Ellis Greenway. Ellis was the son of wealthy traders, and Florence was a midwife by trade. Florence was nearly two decades younger than Ellis, but was on any normal occasion very much in love with her husband. Every morning she took care to kiss him on the corner of his mouth, every afternoon she plucked him fresh flowers from their garden, and every evening she made sure to welcome him to bed with open arms. Now, however, she was quite cross with him.

They had spent the morning at the doctor's office, where Dr Turner had told them the most terrible news. In lieu of a childhood bout of tuberculosis, Florence was unable to have children of her own. Florence was devastated but undeterred - there were other options available, and not only did she know it, but she was going to take full advantage of it. Ellis, on the other hand, was having more trouble with their predicament. It was all they could discuss as they made their way back home.

'We could adopt,' he argued, 'Eventually. Not now. We should still try for ourselves.' Florence tried her best not to roll her eyes. She hurried up her pace just slightly. Ellis, who walked with a limp, struggled to keep up.

'I'm not capable of having children, Ellis. Or were you not listening to Dr Turner?'

'Of course I was listening, darling! But the old man has been wrong before. Or did you not hear of Dahlia Manning's miscarriage? It was all his fault, she says.'

'Dahlia Manning's says a lot of things.' Florence narrowed her eyes mistrustfully. 'Why are we talking of Dahlia Manning all of a sudden?'

Jealousy was a feeling with which Florence was well acquainted. She had met Ellis when she was taking care of one of his neighbours, an elderly woman with terminal cancer. He was, at the time, married and had just become father to a little son, Rupert. She had quickly fallen for his dry wit, abundant charm, and his refined manners. Her feelings had only been further consolidated when she became aware of his strict work ethic, and his sense of duty. Duty had, in fact, been the only thing that had kept Ellis and his first wife together. Duty towards his marriage vows, duty to his son… Ellis was raised from a young age to value these things. But they all went out the window as soon as he met the much younger Florence. He wasted no further time in divorcing his wife, and he married Florence barely four months later. Had his parents been there to witness it, they would surely have cut him off, and neglected his new wife completely. Luckily for Ellis, his parents had perished from old age a decade earlier, and he was free to enjoy both his vast fortune and his young bride.

_How strong is his loyalty to me?_ Wondered Florence. She loved Ellis with all her heart, and knew he loved her just as much. But a man's affections were fickle. She knew this very well - it is the very reason her mother had to raise her and her sickly little sister, Tilly, all on her own.

_Does he think I'm broken?_ Ellis already had a son, a son he rarely saw because of her. And now she would deny him another true born? Adopting a child was not ideal, she knew. All around her, the women of Cokeworth were moving into their new terraced houses with swelling bellies and glowing complexions. Not a single one of them was going to need to adopt, thought Florence glumly as she walked. She felt the tears welling behind her eyes. A little boy or girl with her green eyes and Ellis' riotous brown curls. That is always what she had envisioned. Now that vision would never come to pass.

'I'm sorry,' sniffed Florence. This was unlike her, to cry over such things. It was even less like her to start provoking her husband, though. 'I just want a child. And now tat I can't have any of our own… _Please_. Just consider it.'

Ellis slowed his pace and turned to look at her, eyes soft. He was just about to open his mouth to reply when they heard something coming from the bushes. Startled, they looked towards where the noise was coming from. Nothing. Florence glanced quizzically at the offending greenery and took her husband's hand, tugging it forward. They were just about to start walking again when they heard it once more, a faint noise that was just sharp enough to cut through what was otherwise a regular suburban quietness.

'Perhaps it is an animal,' reasoned Florence. Her instincts as midwife came forth. 'Maybe it is hurt. Let me check.' She moved despite her husband's distressed calls to stay back.

When she had cleared away some of the branches, she gasped in shock at what she saw. What she heard hadn't been the cries of a distressed animal. They were the distressed calls of an infant, who was lying in a puddle of its own urine and covered in an iridescent sort of material.

'Holy smokes,' she cried out. 'Ellis, we must contact the authorities. Someone has left their child!' Ellis limped his way to his wife, swearing uncharacteristically foul when he saw the abandoned child.

'I'll go to ask to use the Burns' phone down the road,' said Ellis, referring to the last house they passed. There was a panicked quality to his voice, and Florence immediately knew why. It was only a ten minute walk to the Burns house, but with Ellis' limp it would take at least twice as long.

'No need,' she offered, 'I'll go. You stay with the baby.' To Ellis' dismay, she bent down and picked up the baby and placed it in his arms, giving him a small, worried smile.

'All right,' said Ellis, holding the baby awkwardly, 'Just hurry up. She feels frightfully cold.' Florence nodded tersely and started running down the street. Ellis shrugged off his coat so that covered the baby, who cooed weakly. _She does feel frightfully cold_, he thought. It was not the coldest September day that he'd ever come across, but it the babe looked to be no more than a couple of days old. He let his eyes scan the baby. The iridescent material was sand, he realised, mixed with tiny shards of glass. It was lucky none of the glass had hurt the babe. The babe itself looked to be well fed, and had a headful of shiny, curly brown locks. It was wearing a blue an red checkered romper with a strange little creature on it, but most interestingly, the hospital tag was still around the baby's wrist. Eagerly, Ellis twisted his head to read the lettering.

NAME: GR—R, HERMIONE

ROOM NUMBER: 135

_ What are the odds_, he thought miserably, _that the only thing we cannot see is the last name?_ At the very least he recognised the hospital logo, although it looked slightly different, sleeker, than he remembered. It was the same hospital Florence sometimes sent her patients to if she felt the task was too serious for home visits. Ellis sighed, and the babe opened her eyes. At least, Ellis assumed it was a her. Hermione was Shakespearean, he knew. It was a good name for a babe, one he would have considered himself, had Rupert been a girl.

He took a considering look at the little babe, so small, so vulnerable, in his arms. How easy it would be, just to take her home. But no, he had already made up his mind, adoption was not for him… He smiled softly at the babe as cooed again, and his arms felt empty when the ambulance finally arrived and he had to give her up.

* * *

They were given an option, most likely because they were Greenways and everyone gave them options owing to their wealth and their charm. The option was this: take the babe and raise her well, or let the babe go to an orphanage two towns over. And, if they were to choose the latter, would they please come to the orphanage for a photo for the newspaper? T'would help the poor orphans, sir and ma'am. A difficult decision for any family - or perhaps not at all, who is to say? - it was a particularly sore topic for the Greenways.

'I don't want to adopt some waif, Florence,' said Ellis. His voice was strained, and Florence had never seen him so exhausted. 'I have a son, whom I love, and whom I never see because I decided loving you was more important. But this… this is asking too much.'

Florence stilled, wondering what she should do. Not once in her marriage so far had she been forced to take a stand against her husband. Up till now she had always found a way to acclimate herself to Ellis' way of doing things, pretending to understand his motivations. But she couldn't even fool herself into believing she understood him on this issue. 'Where is this coming from?' She asked. She wondered how long he had been feeling this way, if this was a new development, or if she had been misreading the signs. She needed to know, but had a sinking feeling she wouldn't like the truth. 'The doctor said I'm not to have any children of my own, and I have accepted that… Even so, I have never, never, accepted the thought of never having any children _at all_… There was always going to be a Hermione, Ellis. I thought you knew that. I thought you wanted that.' Ellis was quiet for a long time, and a dreadful realisation came over Florence.

'Except you didn't want that her in the eyes as he broke it.

'You've never wanted children. That's why you didn't fight Jemima when she took Rupert away… All that fake, self lauding gallantry you spout whenever the topic of your son comes up… Bloody hell,' she cursed, wiping angry tears from her eyes. 'You leaving was the best thing that could have happened to that boy, but now I am the one who is stuck with you and I'll be damned if you keep me from taking in that little girl.'

At this Ellis felt his anger rising. 'That's unfair,' he said, trying his best not to shout the words. 'I love Rupert and I hate that I can't see him every day. Me not wanting to adopt does not mean that I have been _sabotaging_ you! Listen to yourself!'

'Then why don't you want her? She's all alone, Ellis. We can make it better for her, give her a home!'

'And what,' bit out Ellis, loosing all sense of composure, 'about when she'll want to find her real parents? What about when she leaves us like I had to leave Rupert?'

Florence seemed to melt at his words. 'Is _that_ what you're worried about?' She let out a huff of a laugh, disbelieving of the direction that this conversation was taking. 'I understand that you feel like you owe something, Ellis. I understand that you miss Rupert. I do, I really, really do. But you have another chance, and as long as we love that girl as much as we can, she's not going to abandon us for someone who left her in the bushes. Do you understand, Ellis?'

Ellis nodded. He thought of the babe he had held in his hand for those minutes, about the babe he had to keep warm because she was not yet able to do so herself. He felt himself softening, felt himself lose all his resolve.

'Alright?' prompted Florence.

'Alright,' agreed Ellis.

That was how Hermione Greenway came to be, and that is how our story begins.

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**Chapter Notes: **

I once read a post on Tumblr which posed the following question: Why do writers act like it is the end of the world for a woman to be told she is unable to have children? It made me think very hard on how this story starts, which is the same way the story has always started, even in the previous two versions of it. The short answer to this dilemma, of course, is that it does not matter. Women are no longer defined by their ability to have children (this too is arguable, but in this case I shall act as though this is the case), not when there are so many options. It would be weak for me to argue that this doesn't matter because Florence is facing this dilemma in the 50s, and opinions in the 50s regarding this matter were different than the opinions expressed in 2018. While it is my aim to create different, unique characters that reflect their circumstances, I am a firm believer that no story I write on this site will ever be more than vague, unpolished reflection of the thoughts I have as I am writing the story. And as I am writing this story, I am of the opinion that while not being able to carry children is indeed not the end of the world, it will always be a blow because it removes a woman's choice. For example, as I am right now, I do not want children. I have never wanted children. But I still would be heartbroken if I were barren, because now, if I ever change my mind, that would still not be an option I could explore. So it would not necessarily be the absence of children I would mourn, but the absence of choice.

This example is, in any case, oversimplified. And the oversimplification such issues get in stories is something that will, to some extent, be explored in my story. So if I have offended anyone with my depiction on issues such as infertility, adoption, and loving a child that did not come from your own self, then I apologise. You are probably right with your concerns, and in reality I understand the situation is much more complex than I could ever express in this fanfic.

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**General Notes: **

This is my third time posting this story, although saying it is my third time would be a kindness, seeing as those two versions were often edited due to sloppy, quick writing.

Honestly, I was kind of done with this story. The reason I stopped writing is inherently connected to the same reason why I published chapters I was not happy with, and which I subsequently kept on editing. I liked reading reviews that praised my work, but was too lazy to put any real work into it. There was no real motivation behind my writing and developing good stories, which is probably why I have only ever finished short one-shots. Since abandoning my stories without explanation, I have often thought about rewriting them, but was never comfortable enough to do so.

On several accounts was this wrong: not only was it rude to the readers, but it was also stopping myself from growing as a writer. On a personal level, I was most disappointed by the latter.

Now I am at a point in my life where I feel as though I want to start writing my own stories (so, original work). I have had a plot line in my head since I was fourteen years old, and have just been sitting on it and sitting on it until both inspiration and skill would strike within me the ability to write something worth a Pulitzer. Obviously, this was never going to happen. So my starting to write fan fiction again is very much a case of me wanting to improve my skills so I can one day apply them to my original work (and win that Pulitzer).

Additionally, you'll be happy to know there is very little chance I will abandon this story because I have already written it. That's right, it is finished. The reasons I am posting one chapter at a time (hopefully once a week) are as follows: firstly, improvement only works through continuous editing, so if there is something that I need to change I can always still do that; secondly, and this is somewhat tied in with the first reason, I am a total whore for reviews, and I know that by holding my story hostage I have a greater chance of receiving the actual feedback I need to improve.

Sorry for the long ass author's notes. I'll keep it limited to this, even though there is still so much more I want to discuss. Check out my profile for some more information I have on character traits and whatnot… Everything is meticulously planned out for this story. Seriously. I have a timeline that goes as far back as 1912.

Feel free to PM me for whatever, I'll try my best to answer.

Reviews are love!


	2. Chapter 2: Blooming Bruises

**Chapter Two: Blooming Bruises: 1967**

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Bread is the staple of life. It has been since the very first harvest of wheat thousands of years ago. Calling something bread seems easily done; cultural variance makes it so that most sorts differ in taste, texture, shape, size, and colour. But to really be bread, the mere aroma of t must strike hunger in a man's belly, and cause a lady's mouth to water in the most enticing manner.

That being said, the blackened lump of flour, yeast, water, salt, and egg that sat smoking on the Greenway's kitchen counter could in no way ever be mistaken for bread. It smelled almost sulphuric, and not even a starving dog would have thought it worthy to eat.

'I told you we should have kneaded the dough longer,' said an eight year old Hermione haughtily, arms crossed around her chest. 'Obviously the yeast hasn't had the chance to do its thing yet.'

'Oh,' said the young woman standing next to her, annoyed. She had accidentally grazed her hand against the loaf when taking it out of the oven, and was trying to cool the burning sensation by waving her hand around. 'Are you saying this wouldn't have burned to a crisp if _it had done its thing_?'

'Don't be silly, Tilly,' said Hermione. 'Nothing could have saved this lump.' The woman, Tilly, sighed in defeat. Tilly Forrester, twenty years of age, was the younger sister of Florence, and therefore Hermione's aunt. Her relationship with Hermione had, from the very beginning, been a tumultuous mix of affection and bickering. But oh, how Hermione loved Tilly. Tilly was funny, Tilly was smart, Tilly was beautiful, and most of all, Tilly was very, very, very… sickly.

That was the truth of the matter. Tilly, her sister would always remember fondly, was brought into the world coughing. None of the doctors had ever expected her to live past her first year, but Tilly surprised everyone by lasting. Lasting, here, is the key word. She did not thrive, and she did not grow any stronger. She was always coughing, always pale. But there she stood, in the spacious Greenway kitchen, preparing her audition for the local bakery. It would be her first job. And one she clearly deserved, in Hermione's opinion. Hermione took a good long look at her aunt. There was flour in her straw yellow hair, and splatters of chocolate were camouflaged amongst her freckles. Her cornflower blue eyes, normally sparkling with an innate sort of determination, were nearly as downcast as the set of her thin lips. Hermione did not like seeing Tilly upset, was not used to it. Despite her misfortunes, Tilly was an upbeat sort of person, one who complained precious little.

In an effort to cheer her up, Hermione pinched the older girl's arm.

'Hermione!' bit out Tilly, affronted. 'That's not funny! I've been bruising so easily lately… and I was planning on wearing that nice top to the audition. How am I going to come across if I look like I've been doing rounds in the ring, you brat!'

Hermione rolled her eyes. Tilly often called her a brat, but she never meant it. Not really. It was the same way she called everyone silly; people hardly ever were, but that did not mean Hermione was going to stop. At this point, it was more of a term of endearment than anything. Tilly was often being silly, Hermione thought, but now it was not as endearing.

'You're always bruising, Tilly. There's nothing new about that. That's the thing,' she said, an adopting an air of wisdom. 'You're always bruised and sad, about things you shouldn't be so bruised and sad about!'

Now it was Tilly's turn to roll her eyes, and she gave an affectionate scoff to go along with it. 'That doesn't make any sense. I can't stop myself from bruising.'

'It's a metaphor, Tilly,' replied Hermione, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. When she spoke she did so with a slight lisp, owing to two missing front teeth. 'And it does make sense. You're just not listening. You never really do. What I'm saying is that you need more self confidence.'

'That's not fair!' protested Tilly. 'I always listen to you!' She let out a laugh. 'Besides, you talk real nice for a six year old. You should get an hour on the radio, or one of those shows on the telly where they do nothing but talk.'

'Maybe I should,' sniffed Hermione, who felt she was not being taken very seriously. 'I would be very good at it. And I'm eight, you silly girl. Not six!'

Tilly, ever the social butterfly, felt the mood shifting. Now she was no longer very sad, but Hermione was getting cross. Grinning, she grabbed another bag of flour. She motioned for Hermione to take the burnt loaf and throw it away, and the little girl had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it.

'Perhaps we should try a chocolate cake this time,' she said. 'Last time we tried that it was actually edible.'

Appeased, Hermione readily agreed. She turned her back towards Tilly, not noticing how the older girl frown and rub at her forearm, where a deep blue bruise was already starting to bloom.

* * *

Hermione loved learning. She really did; nothing was as enjoyable to her as opening up a book and getting to memorise the snippets of wisdom hidden in its pages. She worshipped her father's library, where tome upon tome was stacked to the ceiling. Hermione loved learning, but hated school.

In all of Cokeworth there was one primary school for children aged four to eleven, and one secondary school for children aged twelve to eighteen. Both had fancy arts programs to appease the wealthier parents, and both had skills programs to teach to appease the parents from Spinner's End, who wanted their children to learn trade. The children all wore the same variations of a school uniform, though the likes of Hermione Greenway wore variations of the more expensive kind, always pressed and clean. She was one of two children attending the schools living up on Gold Hill, as the inhabitants of Cokeworth liked to dub the elevated terrain where all the rich folk lived. But the other child was a boy three years older than Hermione, with a bad temperament and a penchant for setting things afire. His name was Tom and she did not like him very much.

Tom was not the reason Hermione hated school, however. No, the reason why Hermione hated school was that everyone seemed to hate Hermione. Hermione didn't fully understand it, although she knew part of it was the fact that her uniform was a little finer than everyone else's. Perhaps it was because one time, when Eloise Midgen tried to rip away the book she was holding, an entire stake of books started flying at the big bully's head. Because of this, girls like Elouise Midgen, and her friends Molly Ringblot and Evie Kinkers, liked calling Hermione a freak. If you were to ask Hermione, that might as well have been Elouise Midgen's fault. But Hermione was the only one to think so, because Eloise Midgen was quite popular, and therefore never at fault, and definitely not a freak.

So it was without friends that Hermione sat down on the first day of term, on a pleasantly chilly and misty September morning. It was not until the last bell was to right that the chair next to hers was pulled out. Glancing at the new intrusion from the corner of her eye, Hermione saw that it was a girl Hermione's eyes widened. the girl had long, thick locks of red hair that fell just below her shoulders, and the brightest green eyes that Hermione had ever seen. This girl she recognised. This girl was Lily Evans, friends with popular girls like Eloise Midgen and Molly Ringblot and Evie Kinkers, but who never called Hermione a freak.

'Hello,' said Hermione, sitting up a little straighter and turn gin to the girl sitting next to her. She blurted out the only thing that could come to mind: 'Are you excited for class?'

'Hullo,' said the girl without pause, and Hermione was struck by the confidence, by the extroverted jubilance conveyed in just that one word. 'Yeah, I am. I don't mind school like some people here.' She glared at Timothy Smolkens, a boy doodling on his desk a few seats over.

'I'm excited, too!' exclaimed Hermione excitedly, ignoring Timothy Smolkens completely. So far this was the most successful conversation she had ever had with someone her age. 'I reckon the teacher might give me some more difficult books to read soon. These are so dreadfully easy, and I'll be nine soon, in just a couple of wee-' Hermione felt something wet pelt against her cheek. Hair whipping behind her as she turned to look at the offending object, she was confronted by, of all things, a spit ball.

'Oi, Lily!' came a call from across the room. Hand wiping her cheek, Hermione looked to see who it was. It was Molly Ringblot, aforementioned popular girl, and perhaps the most two-faced character in the entire classroom. She was sitting with Eloise and Evie, and it only took one moment for Hermione to realise that it was her who had accosted her with the wet, slimy piece of paper. 'Come sit with us, not with that Freak!'

Hermione felt her eyes well with tears. Hoping against all odds, she turned to Lily gauge the fiery haired girl's reaction. Lily was frowning, but she had already gotten up and was packing her belongings into her bag again.

'I'm sorry, she apologised. 'But Molly is one of my best mates. I think I should go sit with her.'

'Alright,' said Hermione, feebly. 'See you around?'

'Yeah,' said Lily hesitantly. 'Maybe.'

Hermione doubted it. She wondered if Molly Ringblot was the most two-faced character after all.

* * *

It was after school and Hermione was sitting outside the doctor's office with her mother and with Tilly. The bruising had worsened, and to make things worse, Tilly's usual coughing had now started turning out bloody.

'She's a toerag, 'Mione. Don't you take any notice of her,' said Tilly weakly. More and more, she was having trouble getting words out. It left her dejected, and it did not help that, as a result of her constantly being ill, she had been fired from the bakery.

'Don't you worry yourself over little Hermione's spats, love,' said Hermione's mother with a maternal cluck. 'There are other things best to occupy yourself with. Like getting better.'

'I'm just saying, that girl is a prat and Hermione shouldn't get upset over someone who isn't worth her time of day!' said Tilly, voice as fierce as she could muster. Every now and then there would be a fit of coughing, and then the customary, discreet wiping away of blood from the corners of her mouth.

'Mum's right,' said Hermione worriedly as another coughing fit racked her aunt's frail body. 'You should be concerning yourself with other things.' She perked up. 'Like my birthday!'.

Tilly looked at her, all tired eyes and runny nose. 'Three more weeks, was it? Until your birthday, that is.'

Hermione nodded, and Tilly tried her best to smile. 'Alright, you brat. We'll see.' The doctor called Tilly's name, and she stood up. With a final look for Hermione, she followed the doctor and closed the door.

* * *

The day after her ninth birthday Hermione was dressed by her mother in a black satin dress, embroidered with little grey flowers. Her shoes had been polished the night before until they caught the light. Her mother had given her matching black gloves to wear. Florence had done her best to tame the riotous curls atop her head, but to no avail. She would just have to forgo the hat, then.

The car ride to the cemetery was a quiet one, and Hermione was left to think. Perhaps if they had gone to the doctor earlier. She should have insisted. _You always bruise so easily_, Hermione remembered herself saying. She felt a tear roll down her cheek. She should have insisted. The phrase turned like a mantra around her brain. _ShouldhaveinsistedshouldhaveinsistedSHOULDHAVEINSISTED._

Tilly was not to blame, of course. She had tried her best. She really had. But three days before Hermione was due to turn nine, the cancer overwhelmed her and she died in her sleep.

Hermione had been crying with little to no rest ever since.

She could barely understand the service through her tears. All she kept focusing on were the flowers around the grave, which were, peculiarly, wilting one by one. Before she knew it, the service was over and her father was ushering her away.

'Hermione dear,' he said soberly. The service is over. We should leave your mother alone for a bit. Let her say goodbye to Mathilda.' Her father always called Tilly Mathilda, which Tilly hated. If Hermione weren't feeling so wretched, she would have corrected her father, called him silly.

Everywhere she walked, the flowers wilted. A strange occurrence, no doubt, but Hermione was in no state of mind to analyse it.

She was so caught up in her emotions that she almost missed the boy. His hair was greasy and his nose was crooked, and he was wearing a shabby, fraying suit several sizes too big for him, as though he had borrowed it for the occasion. He was standing next to a grave a few plots down from Tilly's, the earth still fresh and the grave reading TOBIAS SNAPE. He was holding flowers in his hands, a bouquet of daisies. Hermione walked past and the flowers wilted.

The boy blinked, shocked, and looked at the girl's retreating form.

* * *

**Author's note:**

I think no matter what universe Hermione ends up in, there's always going to be a Tom who pesters her and causes her trouble. Even in this story, where he's just a little Easter Egg. Maybe he'll come back, who knows.

I tried to make some parallels to Hermione's school situation. She is treated very much like Severus is by the Marauders, and Lily, while not actively bullying Hermione, lets it happen. Kind of like Remus. It's also one of the reasons Lily is going to hate the Marauders' behaviour in the story - she knows she was in the wrong, and feels guilty. But more on that later.

Please review! A lot of people are reading the story, but not a lot are reviewing (I'm eternally grateful for those who have!).

Happy reading,

RedRoses130


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